


The Chicago Caper

by Mums_the_Word



Category: Chicago Fire, Chicago Med, Chicago PD (TV), White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: A Drive-by Shooting, An Early Crossover Fic, Art Authentication, Escape Attempt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, bullet wounds, head injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28569855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey, representing the New York FBI, are invited by Hank Voight to Chicago so that a newly-minted CI can try his hand at some art authentication. Neal’s paroled felon agreement with Peter is just beginning, and while a wary handler views their deal as experimental, Neal sees it as an opportunity to find Kate. During the course of their visit, they get embroiled in another man’s war on crime. This story takes place early in all the listed tv series.
Relationships: Erin Lindsay & Hank Voight, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey were seated, side by side, on a United flight to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. It hasn’t been very long since the inception of their CI/paroled felon deal, and although certain boundaries had been initially laid out, there remained a lot of fumbling around in gray areas that had nothing to do with a 2-mile radius. Trust had to be a two-way street, and two previous adversaries were still hiding behind stop signs at both ends of that dangerous thoroughfare.

Actually, not one agent in the FBI trusted Neal Caffrey, but, paradoxically, he was respected for another reason. Caffrey’s claim to fame was an almost uncanny ability to differentiate bona fide art masterworks from forgeries with just a cursory glance. He was never wrong, so it was eerie as well as helpful to the White Collar Unit in New York City, home to so many museums with painted treasures from antiquity. So, Neal’s quirky talent was the reason for this little jaunt to the Midwest.

The New York FBI had been invited to the Windy City by the head of the Chicago Police Department’s Intelligence Unit. Hank Voight had been after the purveyors of some hard core drugs on the streets, and after he had raided a suspected cartel member’s home, he had discovered several paintings that appeared to have been recently stolen from various museums in the city. He suspected the valuable pieces of art were going to be shipped south of the border as payment for more product in the form of black tar heroin, which went for as much as $1300 per gram on the street. The paintings were in Voight’s possession, but he had to authenticate them as the real deal. The controversial chief of the 21st precinct had enough enemies in the Chicago PD, so he wanted an outside opinion so his detractors couldn’t claim he had manipulated evidence.

“This is a big opportunity for you, Neal,” Peter reminded his CI after the flight had reached cruising altitude and the seat belt sign winked out. “Do what you’re so damn good at to add a check mark on the plus side in your ledger.”

“Right, don’t screw up,” Neal answered his handler sarcastically. “I don’t need a pep talk, Peter. Hughes already read me the riot act and laid out exactly what is expected of me. _“Mess up, Caffrey, and your ass will be back in an orange jump suit before you know what hit you,”_ Neal mimicked SAC Reese Hughes’ somber tone.

“Well, Hughes isn’t one to mince words,” Peter grinned, almost enjoying Neal’s cranky mood. When his partner didn’t respond, Peter tried a new avenue. “Ever been to Chicago before, Neal?”

“Now, why would you ask me that?” the con man quipped.

“Just making idle conversation,” his handler said slowly, although his new CI’s quick response piqued his interest.

Neal huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “The answer I’m going with is that I don’t enjoy idle chit chat, so I’m closing my eyes and pretending you’re not here being inquisitive and annoying,” he said irritably.

Interesting—Peter thought to himself. Perhaps a topic for another day.

When the flight touched down at the Chicago airport, Peter and Neal deplaned with just their carry-ons in their possession. They were met at the gate by a pretty young woman in casual street clothes, who introduced herself as Detective Erin Lindsay. “Hey guys, good of you to make the long trek out here. Hank Voight sent me to pick you up and take you downtown where we have those paintings stashed.”

Now it was Neal who was thinking that this was getting interesting. He’d definitely have to find out more about this young Erin person. Hank Voight, however, was just what Neal envisioned—a tough, no-nonsense, abrupt type of martinet in a plaid shirt and jeans. His beady eyes practically bored holes into Neal as he rocked back on his heels, cocked his head, and made a visiting con man feel like a bug under a microscope.

Actually, this whole little drama was playing out a bit differently than what was the norm back in Neal’s current stomping grounds. In the New York City world, Hughes, the Senior Agent in Charge, was ensconced in a glass cubicle, like a king on his throne, watching over the dedicated professionals who were his minions sitting sedately at their desks. In Neal’s opinion, this particular law enforcement precinct in Chicago could actually be termed a bit grungy with none of the high-end polish of the Federal Building. All the members in Voight’s posse dressed down and there wasn’t even a sport coat in evidence. There were, however, the usual white boards set up here and there around the open space, but the information didn’t seem to have any thread of cohesion. To Neal, it looked a bit chaotic, but maybe he shouldn’t judge how other people conducted their business. He was here for one purpose, and one purpose only, and he couldn’t help feeling like he was being used and abused by the FBI, who was trotting him out like their trick pony.

His attention returned to Voight, now speaking to Neal in what was his normal raspy voice. “Erin will show you the paintings we have stashed in our evidence locker, and then you can take a gander and tell us what you think. I’ve already got two opinions that straddle the fence, so your vote will be the tiebreaker.”

Neal simply nodded, and followed the girl out of the room, very aware that a tough looking Latino male, sporting a huge diamond stud in his earlobe, trailed after them. Once they reached what Voight euphemistically termed his evidence locker, Erin begged off. “I’ve got something to do, so Antonio will keep you company.”

“Maybe we could have a drink later and get to know each other,” Neal smiled with a hint of a promise in his voice.

There was a soft smile in return from Erin. “Hank made sure that I had both your number as well as Agent’s Burke’s, so maybe I’ll text you if I’m free later this evening. But no promises.” Then she was gone like a shadow in the night.

“You’re sniffing around the wrong tree, pretty boy,” Antonio smirked after the female detective had departed.

“Why?” Neal asked innocently before wagging his finger back and forth between Antonio and the door Erin had disappeared through without a backward glance.

“Not me, Bro,” was the sarcastic reply. “Someone else, and that person is the meanest bastard in the bunch. He watches over her, so I’m just sayin’ that _you_ better watch your step while you’re hanging out around here.”

Neal was quick to pick up on innuendo, so he suspected Erin’s watchdog was none other than Hank Voight. Now this was getting _very_ interesting.

“I like to live on the edge,” Neal remarked casually before turning to begin his examination of some very impressive paintings.

~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Peter Burke and Hank Voight had their heads together in the Chief’s office. “So, the FBI’s glorified expert is your CI,” Hank started the conversation.

“Yeah, and that’s really something just in its infancy, so I keep a close eye on him,” Peter admitted.

Hank nodded. “My sources tell me that he’s a former convicted felon that you have on a work/release program. How’s that working out?”

“He wears a tracker so I can keep tabs on him,” Peter answered.

“Is he wearing it now?”

“Yeah, he is,” Peter answered honestly, “although I told the Marshals out in this neck of the woods not to bother monitoring it. I have an app on my phone, so I can see where he is every minute of the day or night.”

“Is that gonna be enough to keep him in check?” Voight asked with a raised eyebrow. “You have to sleep sometime.”

“I guess trust has to start somewhere,” Peter shrugged. “But let me reassure you, he’s not violent in any way, shape, or form. He’s a White Collar criminal—as benign as they come,” he added, just to allay Voight’s misgivings.

“But what you’re really saying, if I get your drift, is that you don’t completely trust him yet,” Hank summed up the really important fact.

When Peter didn’t readily supply an answer, Voight filled in the blanks. “Look, Peter, we have our fair share of CIs in our stable. Some I even run myself. You can trust them up to a point, but there’s always the possibility that they’ll turn on you or try to play both sides from the middle to improve their lot in life. I guess, in a way, you can’t blame the poor suckers for looking out for number one. We’ve got them by the short hairs for some indiscretion and we hold it over their heads. Eventually, every CI begins to evaluate what is worth more to them—us looking the other way or their ultimate freedom from under a heavy yoke.”

“The stakes are really high for Neal,” Peter confided to the detective. “One more strike and he’s back in prison for life. That’s a lot of incentive to stay on an even keel and keep me happy.”

“Well, you know him better than I do,” Hank conceded. “Is he really as good at authenticating art as all the hype suggests?”

Peter laughed. “Yep, he’s the best at recognizing the real stuff. Unfortunately, he’s also an expert at forging it. I shiver to think how many of his duplicates are being displayed in art galleries all over the world.”

Hank Voight joined in the laughter. “I guess I’m fortunate to do what I do. My bailiwick usually involves drugs and gangs, and it’s pretty easy to spot the real thing without breaking a sweat. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then you’re pretty sure what it is. Look, I don’t want to rain on your parade, Peter. On the plus side, your CI looks very young. Sometimes, if you get them early, you can turn them around.”

“Ya think?” Peter tried not to sound skeptical.

“Yeah, I do,” Hank answered firmly. “I took a young 15 year-old off the streets because I thought she was salvageable. Sometimes, by that point, they’re too far gone down the sewer, but I had to try to save her from that life. So, I brought her into my home. My wife mothered her and I was the disciplinarian who laid down the law. It paid off. Now she’s one of my detectives and I love her like a daughter. However, that’s a double-edged sword, because now I still worry about her safety, maybe even more.”

“Erin Lindsay?” Peter asked.

“Yep, probably my best work yet,” Hank smiled.

“Okay, mission accomplished. You’ve given me some hope,” Peter admitted.

~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Neal was doing his thing under Antonio Dawson’s watchful eye. After a few hours, Neal concluded his examination and declared that the collection of art by Gauguin, Matisse, and Titian were authentic. He had made copious annotation notes on a legal pad to back up his findings. He could have stretched out the timeframe of his authentication so he could spend a bit more time in this different environment far away from the myriad of eyes always watching him at the Bureau. But Neal’s hubris just wouldn’t let him. He wanted to wow these new people with how proficient he was.

“So, you’re saying those paintings are the real thing?” Hank Voight asked as he stared hard at Neal with his trademark laser intensity.

“Yep, the real McCoy, et al,” Neal replied. “Of course, if you have any doubts, your own experts can take it a step further. They could extract pieces of the frames to determine the age of the wood, but that may not be definitive evidence. Sometimes, thieves have their own cache of antique frames that they use to mount a doppelganger. Other times, a museum may come into possession of just a canvas of a masterpiece and they provide their own frame. The only other way to satisfy your curiosity is to take a fleck of actual paint from the painting, but defacing a work by a venerated old master seems sacrilegious to me, and going that extra mile will definitely reduce its value.”

“Okay,” Hank finally said. “Now I’ve got two authenticators giving them a thumbs up, and that trumps one procrastinator sitting on the fence. Thanks for the quick assessment, Caffrey. I owe you and Peter a steak dinner for your trouble. I can pick you up tonight at your hotel.”

Peter was happy to hear about that offer. Neal, on the other hand, was a bit concerned about what to wear to this impromptu dinner. Apparently, these people here in Chicago didn’t worry about their appearance. They probably never heard the term “office casual,” and the young con man hadn’t bothered to bring any jeans or chinos. But then, Neal had to admit that he was a bit vain. Standing out in a crowd wasn’t good during a caper, but this was a different scenario. Besides, he needed to look spiffy just in case Erin called and wanted to have that drink.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal wasn’t surprised when Voight came to collect him and Peter at their hotel wearing the same clothes from earlier in the day. The only other addition was a well-worn leather jacket. Peter had gotten the lay of the land and decided to forego a tie as his acquiescence to what seemed to be the norm. Neal refused to sink that low. He had on the other tailored suit he had brought and added gold cuff links and a tie pin to the Hermes creation around his neck.

The dinner was decent, and Neal was content to sit back and listen to Peter and Hank talk shop. Maybe he’d learn something that would come in handy down the road. Voight told Peter that he had visited New York a few times in the past when his perps seemed to have a link to SVU. “Olivia Benson is good police,” he claimed.

“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Peter remarked. “I think the Special Victim’s Unit doesn’t have much in common with White Collar crime, so our paths have never crossed.”

“Yeah, strange bedfellows, but you never know where an investigation takes you,” Hank answered before excusing himself to use the facilities.

It was while Peter and Neal were alone that Neal’s cellphone chirped softly, indicating a text had come in. Neal acted as if he hadn’t heard it.

“Aren’t you gonna see who’s trying to get your attention?” Peter said tauntingly. “I wasn’t aware that someone may be missing you.”

“If I do, are you going to demand to read my private communications?” Neal challenged.

“Just look at the damn thing and stop being so paranoid,” Peter huffed.

Neal scowled at his handler, but reluctantly opened the message. It was a brief note from Erin Lindsay saying she was in a bar in the city, and did he want to join her for that drink? Of course, when Neal looked up, it was into Peter’s face with his suspicious eyebrows raised waiting for an update.

Neal sighed dramatically. “Since inquiring minds want to know, it was an invitation to have a drink with a young lady at a local bar. So, Dad, can I go? I‘m not even begging for the car keys; I can take a taxi.”

“How did you manage to connect with a female so quickly?” Peter demanded to know. “You haven’t been here even 24 hours yet.” Then the light dawned. “It’s that young woman—Erin Lindsay, isn’t it?”

“What if it is?” Neal asked testily.

“Oh, Buddy, you’re playing with fire,” Peter cautioned. “She’s Hank Voight’s special protégé.”

“And I’m your special protégé,” Neal countered. “So, what’s the harm in two ‘special’ people getting together for a drink? It couldn’t get more innocent. Besides, we’re headed back to New York tomorrow so it can’t go anywhere.”

“I know you, Neal, and I’m well aware of what damage you can do in one night,” Peter quipped.

“You have a very low opinion of my morals, Peter, and that wounds me,” Neal sulked.

“I thought you were head-over-heels in love with Kate?” Peter said quietly.

“And you said that I should know when I’ve been dumped,” Neal reminded his handler.

“Okay, Stud, I also happen to know that you don’t have any cash on you, so how are you going to buy this new lady a drink? Oh, wait—that’s right, you can use your new credit card,” Peter smirked in satisfaction.

“Are you going to take it away and cut it up?” Neal glared.

“Nah, keep it. At least I can keep track of what you’re buying, and it better not be an airline ticket to San Diego where you think your lost love may be.”

“Well, we’re practically halfway there, so maybe instead of going back to New York tomorrow, you could come with me to the West Coast?” Neal asked hopefully.

Before Peter could produce a comeback, Hank sat down again at the table. “So, you guys ready to call it a night?” he rumbled.

“Unfortunately, the junior varsity sitting here on the bench thinks the night is just beginning,” Peter cast an evil little smile in Neal’s direction. “It seems that your detective, Erin Lindsay, wants my CI to join her for a drink at some bar. I can banish my young player to the dugout if that bothers you.”

Voight stared hard at Neal. “I don’t micromanage my team. They’re adults and think for themselves, so if you want to meet up with my detective for a drink, I’ll even drive you there myself because I know her usual hangout.”

“And maybe I’ll just tag along, as well,” Peter declared.

“Great—two chaperones,” Neal said sarcastically. “Do I have a curfew, too?”

“If you want to go, then it’s a package deal,” Peter said patronizingly. “Take it or leave it. See, Neal, no micromanaging at this end of the table. I’m actually giving you a choice.”

“Fine, knock yourself out being a voyeur, Peter,” Neal said evenly. He wasn’t about to let his handler or this Voight character see him squirm. Neal Caffrey was suave, no matter who wanted to watch from the bleachers.

~~~~~~~~~~

Voight drove the three of them to a little hole-in-the wall, nondescript tavern in the city. After they entered, Neal spied Erin sitting on a barstool at the back of the room. Thankfully, Peter and Hank decided to occupy a table near the door. Neal sauntered up to the bar and took a seat beside the young woman.

“I’m sorry to say that I came with an entourage,” Neal whispered softly.

“Yeah, I saw the little parade in the mirror,” Erin smirked. “You’re like the pied piper, Caffrey.”

“It’s Neal, since we’re off the clock,” he answered his date for the evening. “And if this whole ridiculous stalking thing by our handlers makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to do this.”

“Hank’s not my handler, Neal. He’s more like a doting father to me, but that’s a whole other story.”

“Yeah, I guess I know about whole other stories, although I doubt Peter wants to be a father to me. He’s happier being my jailer,” Neal grimaced.

Erin looked at Neal and quirked a smile. “I’m not surprised. I checked you out, Neal, and you’ve led a pretty interesting life. You have more than just a reputation for authenticating artwork.”

“Right—I stole it, as well,” Neal admitted. “But that’s all in the past and now I’m on the path to rehabilitation.”

That statement made Erin laugh out loud. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that line, but it’s usually coming out of the mouths of druggies.”

“Do you really want to equate art theft with drug addiction?” Neal scowled.

“Well, isn’t getting away with something and going back to do it, time after time, sort of like becoming addicted?” Erin remarked innocently.

“Can we change the subject—please?” Neal begged good naturedly. “Voight says this is your usual watering hole, so tell me what makes it special.”

The young woman beside him shrugged. “Sometimes my mother tends bar here, although she’s not here tonight. If she were, I would have suggested a different place.”

When Neal remained silent and didn’t pry, Erin felt obligated to elaborate. “My mother and I have a complicated relationship. I suppose, in a nutshell, you could say we aren’t good for one another.”

Neal thought back to his own cold and distant mother. “Yeah, I guess sometimes mothers can really mess with your head.”

There was an uncomfortable silence until Neal broke the impasse. “Look, Erin, let’s forget about our hang ups and our little posse and act like we’re just two people getting to know each other. Let’s talk about normal stuff.”

“That may be a bit difficult, since I doubt either one of us is what people would call _normal_ ,” Erin laughed, “but I guess we could give it a try.”

So, in the spirit of the moment, a pretty young girl and a handsome young man discussed the music they liked, the cuisines they enjoyed, and the movies that were their favorites. Erin discovered that Neal was easy to be with, and she was actually enjoying his company. And for perhaps the first time today, Neal felt relaxed and a bit less stressed by having not one, but two law enforcement agencies breathing down his neck. Erin was smart and savvy, but soft and intriguing in a feminine way. But she wasn’t Kate, and Kate would always remain Neal’s primary focus.

Two hours seemed to melt away. Finally, Erin admitted that it was time she called it a night. Her workday started early in the morning. Neal glanced up in the mirror, only to find Peter and Hank still seated at the little round table by the door. “It looks like the old folks managed to hang in for the duration. Maybe we should let them go home, gulp down their Metamucil, and get into their jammies.”

Erin actually giggled. “You really are a lot of fun, Neal,” she said fondly. “I hope that someday you’ll find what you’re looking for. Maybe then you’ll be happy for real.”

“What makes you think I’m unhappy or looking for something?” Neal asked curiously.

“It takes one to know one,” Erin said softly. “You and I—we’re like a work in progress, and we’re still searching for the puzzle pieces to make our picture whole.”

“Wow, a police detective as well as a psychic,” Neal teased.

“Nah—not a psychic,” Erin smiled. “Psychics make predictions about the future. Only you can decide how your fate plays out. You’re a smart guy, Neal, so be smart.”

“You know, if Peter had said that to me, I’d get pissed,” Neal mused. “But coming from you, somehow it doesn’t rankle so much.”

“That’s because I’m not that important in your life. I’m just someone you met briefly on your journey,” the wise young lady said softly.

Neal remained quietly pensive as he signaled for the check and paid with his credit card. Then he followed in Erin’s footsteps to the exit. “I hope you kept the meter running, Chief Voight,” Neal quipped as he passed by the chaperone’s table. “But don’t worry, I have a brand new credit card to cover the charges,” he added as he threw Peter a mischievous smirk.

As the four people went through the door of the tavern, the cold brisk gusts of winter wind immediately sobered Neal up. Tonight had been brief but nice, and it had helped to take the edge off of his usual wariness. Perhaps that was why his usual sixth sense for danger hadn’t kicked in. It seemed that out of nowhere, a black Lincoln Navigator emerged from the shadows and was bearing down on them.

Hank Voight and Erin Lindsay lived this dangerously precarious life every day and knew the drill. They were also well aware that Voight was on the Latin Kings’ hit list ever since he had taken down the number two man in their gang the hard way. As gun barrels suddenly emerged from the car’s tinted windows, the Chicago detectives hit the pavement and drew their guns as shots from automatic weapons strafed the brick building which, minutes before, had been at their backs.

Peter was a little slower on the uptake. When his tired senses kicked into high gear and he recognized the danger, he plowed into his CI with a vengeance. Neal felt like he had been hit by a defensive linebacker playing for the Chicago Bears football team. He was thrown backwards into the building’s uncompromising brickwork and was presently seeing stars. The next thing he saw when those celestial sparklers subsided was his handler sprawled across his legs in a crumpled heap with blood blossoming on his shirt. Then the stage faded to black as the curtain came down.

Hank and Erin had returned fire in the speeding car’s direction, but within seconds, it had screeched around a corner at the end of the block to make its getaway. Voight was immediately on his cellphone dictating orders for a response from patrol cars in the area. Erin was quickly checking on Peter and Neal. The FBI agent was moaning groggily, but his CI was eerily quiet.

“How bad?” Voight asked as he loomed over her shoulder.

“Agent Burke took a through and through to the shoulder, but I can’t find any obvious injury to Caffrey. Maybe he was knocked unconscious when the back of his head hit the wall, but I can’t rouse him,” she answered succinctly.

So, Voight’s second call was for a bus, and he added the words, _“Officers Down,”_ to make sure the responding EMTs, as well as his team, realized the current urgency. Then he looked at Erin and shook his head in frustration. “Two Feds come into my town, at my request, and they’re not even here twenty-four hours before they get caught up in a shitstorm meant for me! Do White Collar agents even carry guns or have to deal with bangers?”

“This is not on you, Hank,” Erin started to say just as Peter was struggling to sit up and began asking about Neal.

Voight had crouched down. “Take it easy, Peter. Help is on the way. It looks like a strafing bullet made a hole in your shoulder, but I’m not a field medic so let’s wait for a heads up from some Doc at Chicago Med. Your CI looks like he’s all in one piece, just down for the count since his head went one-on-one with a really hard brick wall.”

“You sure?” Peter rasped out breathily.

Hank tried to lighten the moment to tamp down his own crushing feeling of guilt. “Maybe your boy isn’t used to violence and was simply overwhelmed. Most likely, the kid probably experienced what old ladies like to call an attack of the vapors. But I’m sure a bump on the head isn’t life-threatening.”

“Well, Neal does have a hard head,” Peter said weakly.


	3. Chapter 3

Any more conversation ceased as a besieged group of four people waited for the welcoming sound of approaching sirens. As a wail cut through the previously quiet night, Voight actually felt himself exhale. The ambo was the first to arrive with two young female EMTs spilling out with their emergency bags in hand.

“Hey, there,” one chirped as she knelt down beside Peter. “My name is Stella Kidd, and I’m an EMT. Over there is my partner, Sylvie Brett. We’re going to take a look at your injuries and then get you to the hospital after we do our evaluations and get you ready for transport.”

“These two are good people, so they get VIP treatment,” Hank Voight informed her as he hovered over her shoulder.

“All of our patients get VIP treatment, Chief,” Stella quickly responded with a fond grin directed at Voight. “Now give me some space to do what I do best.”

The young woman mentally checked off all the boxes in her triage and then began applying a pressure dressing to Peter’s shoulder. Sylvie Brett was doing the same evaluation with Neal. She couldn’t find any obvious injury, but neither could she rouse him. The proficient woman then performed the accepted field test for level of consciousness called the Glasco Coma scale, but Neal was failing miserably. He was nonresponsive to commands for eye opening, movement, or speaking.

Sylvie quickly applied a neck brace, and with Voight’s help, log-rolled him onto a stretcher and into the ambo. Peter, against Stella Kidd’s advice, lumbered to his feet and climbed in after his CI before collapsing weakly on the adjacent gurney. The nightmare continued as the emergency vehicle hit the road with a lurch. Peter kept a sharp eye on Neal as he watched the female first responder put leads on his chest to take tracings of his heart activity on a monitor. Peter should have felt comforted by the strong, steady procession of peaked spikes showing Neal was still there. But the young CI looked flaccidly limp as a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his upper arm. Peter was ready to freak out when the attentive rescuer gently laid an ambu bag on her patient’s chest.

“It’s just a precaution,” Sylvie quickly read the panic in Peter’s eyes. “Your friend is stable for now, but it never hurts to have everything I’ll need within easy reach if he gets into trouble.”

“He’s my partner,” a worried handler whispered, but he wasn’t even sure she heard him over the wailing siren. This was all his fault. Even though protecting Neal from danger had been a knee-jerk response, maybe Peter’s actions had caused an injury worse than a bullet wound. His CI looked so vulnerable and so quiet, not adjectives that Peter would ever have used when describing Neal Caffrey. This was a friggin’ nightmare!

Once the transport vehicle reached its destination at the Chicago Medical Center, both patients were off-loaded, rushed through the doors, and met by attending trauma physicians. With practiced ease, the gurneys continued on a route to empty treatment bays as vital signs and other pertinent data were exchanged between professionals. Peter craned his head to see where Neal was being taken, but his stretcher seemed to be swallowed up by a form of controlled chaos as health care workers in scrubs darted across Peter’s field of vision. The FBI agent’s search was interrupted when a tall man in a white lab coat was suddenly by his side.

“Sir, my name is Will Halsted and I’m a trauma physician. From what I’ve been told, it seems you forgot to duck on the beautiful streets of our fair city.”

“Yeah, I guess I did forget my dance moves,” Peter quipped. “I should have dipped instead of weaving.”

“Well, let’s take a look at the damage and see if we can get you back in those dancing shoes again,” the doctor smiled.

Of course, the examination was drawn out by a blood collection and the insertion of an intravenous line as well as an x-ray of Peter’s extremity and his chest. Then an intern cleaned the wound and applied a dressing. Peter kept asking anyone who walked by about Neal, but all he got was a shake of the head and a fleeting smile. Hospital personnel were on Code Red status, so it was all hands on deck because a huge car pile-up on the expressway had produced multiple casualties that needed immediate attention.

Nearly two hours later, Dr. Halsted returned, and with an apologetic grin, gave Peter a thumbs up. “Sorry it took so long, but we really got slammed with the injured involved in a traffic accident. Now that relative quiet has returned, let me fill you in about your situation. The bullet that had your name on it passed right through the fleshy part of your shoulder without stopping, which is a good thing because we didn’t have to go in after it. It missed your clavicle bone and your brachial plexus, so no nerve damage. I want to say you’re lucky, but I guess that depends on your point of view. Being collateral damage in a gang vendetta really isn’t being lucky.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Peter grimaced.

“Well, here’s the down and dirty. We gave you IV antibiotics and I’ll give you a prescription for ten more days of them that you can take orally. We updated your tetanus toxoid, and we’ll give you a sling for your arm to keep the pressure off your shoulder. Leave the dressing over your wound intact until you follow up with your private doctor in 24 hours, but if you start getting feverish before then, give us a call here in the ER.”

“Listen, Doctor Halstead, I’m a visiting FBI agent from New York and I was brought in with my partner. He was injured in the same incident. His name is Neal Caffrey and he was unconscious, so could you find out how he is?” Peter pleaded.

“Sure,” Will agreed. “I think Doctor Marcel saw him when he was first brought in. Let me find Crockett and get the low down.”

Actually, about twenty minutes later, it was a pretty young nurse named April who stuck her head between the curtains of Peter’s cubicle. “Hi, Agent Burke. Dr. Marcel wanted me to tell you that your friend, Mr. Caffrey, went up a while ago to have an MRI done. I called upstairs to see about his status and was told the test hadn’t been performed yet because the patient has some kind of electronic device on his ankle. The procedure can’t be started until they figure out a way to remove it.”

“I can help with that,” Peter quickly responded as he dug into his pants pocket with his functional hand and produced a key.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal’s “status” had certainly changed in the past two hours. He had awakened quite soon after his stretcher had been wheeled into a kind of waiting area outside of the Diagnostic Imaging area in the hospital. At first, there was the initial period of confusion, and when he tried to turn his head to look around him to get his bearings, he found that was impossible. He explored his neck with a tentative touch and felt a hard plastic brace responsible for the lack of mobility. His probing fingers then quickly located a strip of Velcro holding the offending impediment in place, and he ripped the closure apart for instant relief.

Next, he gazed down the length of his supine body and discovered he was no longer dressed in his shirt and tie or his suit coat. Instead, there was a flimsy blue gown with a white swirled pattern replacing it, at least on his upper torso, which now had a series of electrodes stuck to his chest. Neal then timidly picked up the white sheet covering him and peeked at the rest of his body. Yep, somebody had undressed him, thankfully leaving him a modicum of modesty because he saw that his underwear was still in place. His feet were bare and he wiggled his toes to make sure they were functioning, but then his attention was suddenly riveted on his ankle. What he didn’t see was the tracking device.

Neal tried to parse out this sudden mystery to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He forced his mind to remember. The last clear image was of having drinks with a pretty young lady in a bar, and with a bit of concentration, he recalled that her name had been Erin. Then, like a flash flood, everything washed through his mind—the ambush outside that bar, the weird ballet of duck-and-cover movements by Peter, Voight, and Erin, and his own less than graceful landing against a wall. Thankfully, by that time, his neurons were too muddled to register the picture of the blood on his handler’s shirt.

Okay, so that was enough past-tense fill-in-the-blanks. Now it was time to get oriented to the here and now. Neal’s senses went on high alert. He heard occasional staccato directives delivered by some kind of overhead sound system, and if he lifted his head, he saw actual people in scrub outfits hustle by the arch of the alcove. So, his first guess would be a hospital with him playing the part of a patient. Another quick somatic check of his anatomy assured him everything was in working order, so he dared to sit up. That movement made a small piece of electronic equipment nestled beside his body start to complain. Within seconds, a young man appeared and pushed a tiny button to silence the incessant beeping.

“Everything’s okay, Sir. One of your leads came loose because you were moving around,” the newcomer assured Neal as he located the small round adhesive disc and repositioned it. “I know waiting is hard, but we’ve been swamped with patients. But I promise, you’re the next one up for your MRI.”

“Okaay,” Neal drawled out slowly. As the busy the technician turned away, Neal called after him. “Um, do you happen to know where my stuff is—you know, things like my clothes and my wallet?”

“Don’t worry, Sir, everything is right there in a bag under your stretcher. Articles of clothing and any valuables always remain with a patient until they actually get assigned a room. Since you came right from the ER, everything is within easy reach.” Then the harried tech disappeared from Neal’s field of vision.

A previously confused con man was now processing a lot of information. Apparently, someone had assumed he was injured in some way, obviously convinced enough about some part of his anatomy that they had ordered a magnetic resonance imaging test. That was probably the reason his tracking anklet had been removed. Peter wasn’t looming around, so perhaps he was hunkered down in wherever the emergency room was awaiting Neal’s return from this upcoming test. Since Neal’s clothes and his wallet were readily available, a thoughtful young man calculated the odds.

With slow deliberate movements, Neal pushed the “silence” button on his portable EKG machine. Then he tedious pulled five leads from his upper chest. Sitting up and actually slithering off the stretcher brought on a temporary flash of vertigo, but it passed, unlike the pounding headache. But he could deal with that. He quietly removed his clothes from the bag beneath the stretcher. His shirt was a bit wrinkled, but he couldn’t see any signs of blood on it or on any other article of what he had previously been wearing. He found his watch, cuff links, and tie pin at the bottom of the cache, and his wallet was nestled right beside his intact tracker which, apparently, had been opened with a key. Neal actually managed a slight smile. “Well, thank you very much, Peter Burke.”

Then, like a phantom in the night, Neal Caffrey became an ex-patient and ex-tethered felon on the move.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime later found a determined escapee slouched in a hard molded chair in a sparsely populated gateway at O’Hare Airport. Neal’s new plastic had come in handy to book a stand-by seat on a Delta flight leaving within minutes for San Diego. Hopefully, the pending charge on the credit card wouldn’t pop up soon enough for Peter to intercept Neal’s escape. Once he reached the West Coast, Neal was a proficient pickpocket, so he could easily obtain new credentials and cash with light-fingered ease. The room’s overhead fluorescent lighting was making Neal’s headache worse, but he could tough it out by closing his eyes until the announcement came for boarding the aircraft. He barely felt the gentle jostling as someone sat down next to him.

“She’s not in San Diego anymore,” a gentle voice whispered in his ear.

Neal stifled any abrupt movements, realizing that he shouldn’t have been surprised. He merely let out a tired sigh, and without opening his eyes, asked, “How do you know that?”

“I’m an FBI agent so I have ways of finding out things,” Peter answered quietly without a trace of sarcasm.

“I guess just like you found out where I was by checking my credit card charges,” Neal challenged.

“It wasn’t necessary to go to all that trouble, Buddy,” Peter replied softly. “I know you and what you really want, even if what you want isn’t good for you. I simply checked all the direct flights from here to San Diego, and I was sure you’d try for one of them.”

“Okay, so you’ve tipped my king in our little chess match, but don’t pretend you know what’s good for me!” Neal finally showed some resentment as he turned to face his handler. It was then that he saw Peter’s arm suspended in a sling. “What happened to you, Peter?” he asked worriedly.

“I guess I didn’t duck quick enough,” Neal’s handler smiled ruefully. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Neal still wasn’t convinced.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Peter tried to be reassuring. “But you, Buddy, shouldn’t be off gadding about when, just a few hours ago, nobody was home in that head of yours. Don’t you get how much danger you put yourself in? You could be bleeding into your brain right now from your head injury.”

“Hyperbolize much?” Neal mocked. “I’m fine, just a slight headache.”

“And I think you’re trying to minimize the pain. So, since I’m responsible for you, how about we meet in the middle. We go back to the hospital, you get an MRI to make me worry less, and then I’ll do something for you.”

“Like what?” Neal asked suspiciously.

“I’ll help you find the Bonnie to your Clyde. I happen to know she’s currently in New York City. You can meet with her, but under my supervision. Then you can see for yourself that the damsel you thought was in distress isn’t in any danger at all. The lady comes and goes as she pleases. She’s not being held captive by some nefarious character wearing an FBI ring. But I know you have to be convinced of that yourself, so maybe a face-to-face encounter will be the only way to put this thing to rest and you’ll stop doing stupid stuff. So, do we have a deal?”

“You’re not going to send me back to prison?” Neal asked warily.

“It’s tempting,” Peter admitted, “but probably counterproductive. You’d just find another way to escape and then I’d have to interrupt what I’m doing to find you yet again. That would get tedious after a while, for both of us. So, why not work with me instead of against me, Neal? It would be easier all around.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice,” Neal mumbled.

“There are always choices in life, Buddy,” Peter disagreed. “So, far your choices are 0 and 3 for success. Let’s turn those stats around.”

Before Neal could supply an answer, he saw Hank Voight casually saunter into view with his hands in his pockets. “I see you’ve brought reinforcements,” Neal snarked. “I guess one Chicago police chief is better than a whole SWAT team. That would have really caused a scene.”

Peter actually laughed. “I didn’t think I needed SWAT, so no drama coming from this end. The only reason Hank is here is that I couldn’t drive with one bum arm in a sling.”

Voight took this as his cue to add his own remark. “C’mon, Mr. Genius Authenticator, my meter’s still running. I hope you haven’t maxed out that credit card so you can cover the charges.”


End file.
